“We’ve got to find her, you know that, don’t you? If we’re too late, she may be charged with murder.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t kill him, would she? Little Biddy? I know she’s been a bit wild in her time, but she’s a woman now.”
He gripped her hands in his own. “Rosa, tell me what you told her. Tell me everything you told her.”
She stared at him wide-eyed. “Who are you? What are you? Are you the police?”
“I’m a father,” he said.
She blew her nose again, staring at him. Then she began to gather up the tarot, and as she did so, she started to speak.
Almost half an hour later, he made his way out into the evening air. His legs were stiff, and he rubbed them. He gestured to the Special Branch man, who came over to him.
“Stick around,” Elder ordered. “She might come back.”
There was no sign of Barclay and Dominique. He had choices now, several choices, and he was keen to get away from this place. He passed Barnaby’s Gun Stall.
“Here, guv, have a go?” cried the young man. He didn’t recognize Elder. The wooden cut-out was still there, the target destroyed with such accuracy. A young lady... The whole fair was Witch’s cover, because she was part of it and always had been.
Where were they? Then he heard a shriek, and he saw them. Dominique was on the dodgems, Barclay watching from the sidelines and smiling. She shrieked again and tried to avoid a collision, but too late. Elder could not help but be affected by the scene. He stood, leaning against a rail, and watched. Barclay saw him at last and joined him.
“Sorry, sir,” he said.
“No need to apologize, Michael. Let’s call it necessary R and R. Listen, there’s something I want to get from the car. Just point me in the general direction and give me the keys.”
Barclay dug the keys out of his pocket. “The car’s parked on Islingword Road. Top of Richmond Terrace and turn right.”
Elder nodded. “Thanks,” he said, turning away.
“You’re coming back, aren’t you, sir?”
Elder nodded again. He wanted to say, It’s not your fight, it’s not worth the risk. Instead, he glanced towards Dominique. She made up his mind for him.
He wondered what they would do. Maybe a train back to London. Or stay the night in Brighton. Elder had never seen himself as a matchmaker. He didn’t see himself as one now. All he knew was that he had to do this alone. The young couple represented too much baggage, too much of a responsibility. And besides, there was a score he had to settle. Silverfish.
Wolf Bandorff had said Witch hated men. In fact, she hated only the one man. Aged thirteen, she had asked Rose Pellengro about her parents. Rose had told her some of the story, enough to fuel hatred but not enough to identify the people involved. Witch had pressed, but Rose Pellengro would say no more. But the obituary of Marion Barker had struck a chord, and this time, confronted with the name, Rose had admitted the truth. The man who had forced Witch’s mother into discarding her was Jonathan Barker. Suddenly, there was someone for her to focus her vague, long-held hatred on. The Home Secretary.
The young Brigid Anastasia had run away with an Irishman. It was a short sea crossing from Liverpool to Ireland. Maybe the man himself was a terrorist, or maybe she had drifted into the company of terrorists afterwards. Female and a teenager, she would have proved useful to the IRA, running cross-border errands. Perhaps they had even sent her as far as Germany to liaise with Wolfgang Bandorff and his group. From Germany, she’d drifted south to Italy. In a sense, she’d been drifting ever since. She had no cause, no real set of ideals. All she’d had was anger, an anger she could do little to assuage. Until now.
Elder didn’t doubt that she had taken on the London job before discovering her father’s identity. But when she did discover his identity from the newspaper in the Australian’s apartment, she had come to a decision. Instead of going ahead with the assassination, she would carry out a stunning double bluff, fooling both her employers and the security forces. It was no mistake that she’d made such a noisy and messy entry into the country. She’d wanted them to know she was there. And while security had been tightened around the summit, while all that effort and manpower had been focused on the gathering of world leaders, Witch’s real target had gone unnoticed and underprotected. She’d taken her employers’ money, doubtless with thoughts of retirement and disappearance after this last task: dealing with her father.
The Alfa Romeo had been found abandoned off the King’s Road. No doubt she’d switched cars. The Alfa had been stolen the previous night in Croydon. There was no way of knowing from where the second car had been stolen, or what make it was. Police were now on the lookout for any one of forty-six reported stolen vehicles from in and around the London area. Elder had the list with him. Roadblocks had been set up, but only on major roads, a stupid and wasteful procedure only set in motion because it would mean the police were doing something to stop her getting away with it.
Well, Elder was doing something, too. From his talk with Rose Pellengro, he had noted six possible locations, six places where Witch might take her father before... before what? Killing him? Would that be enough for her? Whatever, Elder knew she would not linger over her task, so he dare not linger over his.
Joyce Parry was in a meeting in her office when the telephone buzzed. She picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Parry? Barclay here.”
“Michael, are you still in Brighton?”
“Well... yes, actually.”
She knew from his tone that something was wrong. She sat forwards in her seat. “What is it?”
“It’s Mr. Elder. He’s gone off in my car.”
“Gone off where?”
“We don’t know. He said he had to go and fetch something...”
Joyce Parry rose to her feet, taking the telephone apparatus with her, holding the body of the telephone in one hand, the receiver in the other.
“Has he talked to the palm reader?”
“Yes.”
“What did he find out?”
“He didn’t say.”
Parry let out a sharp hiss of breath.
“Sorry,” said Barclay, sounding despondent.
“Michael, go talk to the palm reader, find out what she told him.” She looked at her visitor, as though only now remembering that he was there. “Hold on a second,” she said into the receiver, before muffling the mouthpiece against her shoulder. “Elder,” she said. “He’s gone haring off in Barclay’s car.”
Greenleaf got up from his chair. “We need a description of the car.” He came to the desk and took a notebook and pen from his pocket.
“Michael?” Parry said into the mouthpiece. “What kind of car is it?” She listened. “White Ford Fiesta, okay. And registration number?” Barclay gave it to her, and she repeated it for Greenleaf. “Right,” she said. “Go talk to Madame Whatever-her-name, and call me straight back.”
“Will do,” said Barclay’s voice. “Just the one thing. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. It’s just come back to me. What was Operation Silver—”
But Joyce Parry was already severing the connection. Greenleaf took the receiver from her and pressed some numbers home, pausing for his call to be answered.
“Inspector Greenleaf here,” he said. “I’ve got a car needs tracing. Notify every force in the country. As soon as anyone sees it, I want to be the first to know. Understood?”
Joyce Parry slumped back down onto her chair and rubbed her face with her hand. Dominic, Dominic. Where the hell are you? And why don’t you ever learn?